


i think i was blind before i met you

by theviolonist



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Art School, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-13
Updated: 2014-03-13
Packaged: 2018-01-15 13:07:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1305892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theviolonist/pseuds/theviolonist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In those three months before Mal (no last name, no matter who you ask; sometimes she jokes she lost it when she crossed the ocean) breaks your heart you draw her four hundred and seventy seven times.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i think i was blind before i met you

**i.**

The first time she swans into the classroom, vaguely oriental robe already falling down her shoulders and you keep your mouth shut, not to blurt out something stupid like, "What Singer Sargent painting did you walk out of?" Which, whatever. Art student jokes. 

But also, the terrifying glint in her eye that tells you she might just get it. 

 

 **ii.**

It's not that you ask around, not really. It's just, you have a friend who has a friend who is sort of friendly with that guy in architecture, and he sees you doodling in the margin of your art history history notebook and he says, "I see you met Mal," the same way other people would say, _tough luck getting that brain cancer._

So it's like, what the fuck, and you look up and there's a boy with sharp bird's eyes smiling at you, a little condescending.

"Who are you?" you ask, since it's the first question that's not _who is she?_ that pops in your mind. 

He holds out a hand. Pristine nails, you notice, holding back the urge to jam your own hands, dirty nails and all, under your thighs. "Sorry. I'm Arthur."

"Ariadne," you say, only slightly shellshocked. 

He ends up telling you about Mal and, well, it's not like you can not listen, is it? 

 

 **iii.**

Coffee tips in a scalding wave in the styrofoam container, just over her wrist. She doesn't seem to notice. You bite your tongue.

(But she notices _you_ \-- of all people.)

"You're - Ariadne, right?" she asks, squinting a little, just barely. "Arthur showed me your drawings. You're very talented."

There's a faint accent there, something aristocratic and european. You don't touch her arm to make sure she's real. (Maybe, just maybe, you're not sure you could handle it if she wasn't.)

"Thank you," you say. 

There's a silence; she's expressive when she talks, arms flowing lips stretching eyes interrupting, but her fingers are free of burns. 

Then -- "How about drawing me sometime? Just the two of us?"

And who are you to say no to free study, really?

 

 **iv.**

That's how it happens, no kidding: 

She shows up at your apartment (your roommate is out, smoking up and expounding on Botticelli somewhere) with a bottle of red wine and a loose-flowing dress. She toes off her shoes at the door, even though you didn't ask her to. 

When you _do_ ask, "Acrylic or watercolor?" (Not a thing you do, usually, asking, you're the artist after all, but you figure since you're going to inevitably butcher whatever perfection she's got going on, you might as well give her the choice as to how.)

She says, "Aquarelle." It rolls funnily in her mouth, that word, like she was made to say it. 

You get about half an hour into your painting (her lying on the ratty bed you don't sleep much on, head heavy on her hand, neck graceful and stretched, only naked from her toes to that flow of black hair) before she crosses the room in two fluid strides, slides a hand around your neck and kisses you. 

You let go of your brush - surprise, lust, call it whatever you want -, end up coloring your big toe purple and she laughs, "what about me was purple anyway," and you start to explain about color theory and layers and shadows but she drinks the words straight from your mouth before they can form, quiets you with her hands on your back and her unfurling body, laying back on your bed with her arms open. 

(Funny thing about it, though, is that that unfinished drawing is the only watercolor you ever do of her. The rest is all acrylic acrylic acrylic, funny-smelling and heavy even though she scrunches up her nose and says, _I don't like permanent things._ But you do - that's the problem, really.)

 

 **v.**

Arthur says, "I love her, I do, but you should be careful."

You ask, "why?" And then you tune him out when he tells you about the ghost of a poor boy who lost his mind to her, Dominic something, you dream about her wet hair when she comes out of the shower and her lips and her hands when she dips them into your paint, coming out red. In the end it annoys you, though, that nagging doubt that wants to infect you, so you shut him down with your old feminist used-to-go-to-rallies tone, "I don't believe in that temptress myth, that's just misogynistic bullshit."

He stops talking then; "Whatever," he says, a little mean. 

You laugh to defuse the tension and he lets his forgiveness be bought with a muffin and a promise of gossip. "Don't you have your own love life to worry about, anyway? What about that guy Eames?" And he hides a smile and gives you a look, as if to say, okay; don't say I haven't warned you. 

You won't. 

 

 **vi.**

In those three months before Mal (no last name, no matter who you ask; sometimes she jokes she lost it when she crossed the ocean) breaks your heart you draw her four hundred and seventy seven times. Teachers call you talented, inspired even, and criticize your limited number of subjects. How will you learn, with only one body? How will you get to understand the multitudes of attitudes, the crossed arms, the pigeon toes, the high chins and pudgy stomachs and angry frowns of humankind? 

But it's water off a duck's back; you only want to know one body, one set of expressions, one panoply of smiles, until you're full to bursting, until you've absorbed all the secrets to her silhouette. Then, maybe -- (that's what you say, anyway. 'Then, maybe...' But you don't really mean it. You're a forever kinda gal.)

 

 **vii.**

There are two common denominators to your fights:

One, they're always about nothing. The big questions simmer and rot inside you while you bicker about unwashed dishes, a smile given to someone who didn't deserve it, why did I never meet your parents anyway? Once Mal wakes up in the middle of the night and hits you with curled, pummeling fists because of a dream she had where you drew someone else, keeps hissing at you until you fling a glass of cold water in her face. 

And two, they always end the same way. You'll be hurling insults (and you, you're such a tiny demure girl, you used to go to church every Sunday and you got straight As and it was such a shock when you decided on art school, but you're a pacifist, you are) and the next minute you'll have her wrists pinned over her head because damn, damn if she isn't beautiful when she's incandescent with unjustified rage. She kisses you back, too, every time. 

(You think, we're fine. You think, when she turns away then we'll have a problem.)

 

 **viii.**

Okay, spit it out: really what you're worried about is that one day she'll be sitting cross-legged on your couch smoking and she'll pull off, part her lips to release the smoke and just say, "I'm bored."

Well, yeah. You are. 

 

 **ix.**

This is how it will actually happen: one day you'll come back to your apartment after classes and you'll notice that her shoes aren't there in the doorway, the usual clutter of high heels combat boots used sneakers. (It's fine, though. She tidies sometimes, when she remembers, once in a blue moon before visiting chaos again.)

Then you'll walk into the living-room and your roommate will give you a dirty look, say, "Dude, that chick is crazy," and you won't need to ask what chick, because, well. Mal _is_ crazy, a little, sometimes. Still nothing out of the ordinary. 

And then you'll close your bedroom door behind you, dump your messenger bag on the bed and see, wait, is that a note? A note stuck on a bottle of wine. And you'll pick it up and it'll say, _merci_. Just that. You'll even turn it around, light it from beneath to see if there's not a secret message hidden in it, something, anything that could give you a clue, the beginning of an explanation. 

And then you'll sit in front of your open empty closet and cry. You're not ashamed to say it.

 

 **x.**

One of your friends asks, "What was so special about her, anyway?" and the answer gets stuck in your throat. 

You could say that it was the way she casually strode in and made every room she ever entered hers. Or you could say it was the way her clothes were so rich and so fucking _many_ that they ate your five sweaters and two pairs of khakis, never to be seen again, so that by the end you mostly borrowed your roommate's dirty jeans and the most inconspicuous of her T-shirts. Or you could say it was the way you never managed to paint a picture of her that you actually felt proud enough of to show her, even though she was always peeking over your shoulder. Or you could say it was the way she kissed you like she had all the time in the world and like she wanted to eat you from the inside at the same time. Or you could say it was the French litanies she let flow from her lips during sex sometimes, on hot drunken days, so that you started borrowing teach-yourself language manuals from the library to understand her. Or you could say it was the way you always felt the need to keep secrets from her, things she couldn't touch and burn, and the way she always seemed to know everything anyway. 

You could say anything, really. 

So you just shrug. "You're right," you say. "Plenty of fish in the sea."


End file.
